Mortal Mischief

celebrant invisible. A magus of Boleskine's stature – or someone even more skilled in the black arts – might enter a room, commit a murder, and simply wait for the locked door to be broken down, whereupon he could slip away unnoticed – right under the noses of the dim-witted investigators.

Reflecting on her hypothesis, Cosima congratulated herself, but she was troubled by its implications. Would Fraulein Lowenstein really have had the opportunity to mix in such exalted circles? She had been a talented medium, without doubt, but not someone versed in arcane law, that much was obvious. Hers had been a natural gift – raw and untutored. She had known virtually nothing of the Egyptian deities. When Cosima had mentioned Horus, Isis, and Hoor-Paar-Kraat (better known to the uninitiated as Seth), Charlotte Lowenstein had simply changed the subject, showing the unmistakable signs of embarrassment.

Cosima wriggled uncomfortably. The chair arms were pressing into the flesh that hung in loose folds around her stomach and hips. She picked up her well-worn set of tarot cards and flicked through the minor trumps, removing the four queens.

Which, she wondered, would best serve the purpose of representing Charlotte Lowenstein?

She touched each of the four suits and after some deliberation returned her stubby forefinger to the Queen of Cups, which she pushed out of the regal parade and towards a sphere of glass that rested in an ivory cradle on the card table.

Of course, there was still another possibility. Fraulein Lowenstein might have meddled with powers that she was ultimately unable to control. Lord Boleskine had spoken of 'The Operation of Abramelin' and other such rites: calling forth the four Great Princes of the world's evil – and their eight sub-princes . . . Charlotte Lowenstein's uncomplicated personality may have been a ruse, an expedient disguise, concealing a proud heart and more ambition than Cosima had at first suspected. If the silly girl had attempted to bargain with forces that she did not understand they would have exacted a terrible and unspeakable revenge.

Cosima stroked the diamond-encrusted ankh that hung from her neck, and stared into the crystal ball. An inverted world hung in its watery bubble, supporting no life except a deformed homunculus with bulging eyes. Cosima had sat like this for many hours, on many occasions, staring at her own distorted reflection, and not once had the ball become milky, not once had its interior clouded with prescient visions.

'Mistress . . . mistress.'

A tremulous voice was calling from the other side of the door.

Oh, that idiotic child.

'What is it, Friederike? I told you never to disturb me when I'm in here.'

The voice continued.

'Mistress. Herr Bruckmuller is here to see you.'

'Oh,' said Cosima, the tone of her voice changing from irritation to mild surprise.

'Shall I tell him to go away?'

'No,' Cosima shouted out. 'No, of course not, you foolish child. Bring him up at once.'

The maid scurried down the stairs and Cosima returned to her musings.

The police were ill-equipped to undertake such an investigation. They had equated Braun's absence with guilt. But what if he had been party to Fraulein Lowenstein's quest for power? The dark forces that had engineered the medium's extraordinary demise would be perfectly capable of spiriting away a young artist.

The rumble of Bruckmuller's basso profundo could be heard long before his heavy tread on the stairs. Why he bothered to make small talk with the servants was beyond Cosima's comprehension.

There was a soft knock on the door.

'Come in.'

The door opened and Friederike announced: 'Herr Bruckmuller.'

'Thank you, Friederike. That will be all.'

The big man smiled and advanced towards the wooden throne.

'My darling Cosima,' he bellowed. 'You look radiant.'

Cosima was at once delighted with – and embarrassed by – the compliment. She extended a chubby hand and allowed Bruckmuller to plant his lips on her dimpled knuckles. His bristly moustache was surprisingly sharp.

'Hans, my dear. Did you see the Zeitung?'

'I did. Extraordinary! Quite extraordinary!'

'She was visited by a higher power.'

'You think so?'

'Of course. The silly girl was playing with fire . . . dabbling in arts which she did not have the knowledge to practise safely.'

Bruckmuller sat on the divan and shook his head.

'It must have been terrible.'

'Indeed. It is difficult to imagine what perturbations of the soul she suffered that night. I shudder at the thought.'

Bruckmuller's expression suddenly changed: 'However . . .'

'What?' said Cosima.

'There is the matter of Braun. Where is he? Why has he absconded?'

'Has he absconded? That is what the police imply. But there could be another explanation. He might have been removed.'

'What? You mean by the same higher power?'

'I fear that the police will never have an opportunity to interview him.'

'But why?' asked Bruckmuller, his voice booming. 'Why Braun?'

'That is a question which I mean to answer,' Cosima replied, clutching her ankh and affecting an expression intended to be both alluring and mysterious. 'Very, very soon.'

28

LIEBERMANN PLACED HIS pen on the desk and applied a large square of blotting paper to his notebook. When he was satisfied that the ink was dry he reviewed his case summaries and placed the notebook back in the drawer. As he did so, there was a knock on the door. It was Kanner.

'Hello, Max. Can you spare a minute?'

'A minute – but not much longer. Mahler's conducting a Beethoven and Wagner programme at the Philharmonic. It starts at seven.'

'I won't keep you long,' said Kanner, taking a seat. 'Have you seen Miss Lydgate today?'

'No.'

'Max, she's had another one of those . . .' He paused for a moment before continuing: 'Fits.'

'Oh,' said Liebermann, his face creasing with concern.

'It was just like the previous fit,' continued Kanner. 'Apparently, Miss Lydgate had been well for much of the day – chatting to the nurses and reading. I was doing a round and went to say hello – and . . .' Kanner smiled apologetically and shrugged. 'I seemed to set her off again. As soon as I appeared she started to cough, and within seconds she was screaming at me . . . I just don't understand it.'

'Did her right hand—'

'Oh yes,' said Kanner, nodding vigorously. 'She threw a punch but, being better prepared this time, I managed to get out of the way. She was restrained by the porters until she calmed down.'

'Did she say anything else?'

'I don't know – I thought it best to leave. I didn't want to make the situation any worse. I understand that she fell asleep again and woke up two hours later with no recollection of what had transpired. I'm sorry, Max, I didn't mean to—'

'Please,' said Liebermann, raising a hand to silence his friend. 'It isn't your fault, Stefan.'

'Probably not, but I still feel responsible.'

Liebermann picked up his pen and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

'Oh, and there's another thing,' added Kanner. 'On Friday afternoon, Miss Lydgate was sitting with Katia Dill – you know, the young girl from Baden? Anyway, as they were talking, Katia showed Miss Lydgate her embroidery. A